


In Which There Is Absolutely No Plotline Whatsoever

by idgit_with_a_fidget



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Dom Tony, M/M, PWP, Shameless Smut, Sub Bruce
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 21:29:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/679073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idgit_with_a_fidget/pseuds/idgit_with_a_fidget
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The title explains it all, huh?</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which There Is Absolutely No Plotline Whatsoever

**Author's Note:**

> well...I don't really write things like this usually. Ah well, enjoy.

“It’s easy…” Tony assured, breath as dry as the desert against Bruce’s ear, making the hairs on the nape of his neck stand to attention. He looped one arm around Tony’s waist and buried his nose in his shoulder, gripping at his shirt. He had his eyes closed.

The kisses were not warm or soft; they were fervent, feverish and frenzied, and if anything: a little one-sided. Tony’s lips were chapped and dehydrated and pressed firmly, hungrily against Bruce’s resisting mouth. The engineer paused for breath, but refused to let the other man go, crushing his cheek to the lips instead. He turned back, pressing their foreheads together. Sweat, miniscule, transparent beads, lined his hairline, gluing their skin, only coming apart with a grossly satisfying ‘schlip’ noise. Bruce tasted sweat, warm and welcome. 

“I said it was easy, you’ve just got to go with me on this,” Tony urged, somewhat irritated. “Okay?” his hands were on the backs of Bruce’s thighs; secure, strong like a vice. 

“You just gotta…” he paused to take a sticky breath. “That anger…use it… it will be amazing.”

“What if-”

“Sssh. Amazing.” Tony repeated, blood lacking in his brain. 

He peeled Bruce’s shirt from his shoulders with his teeth and did the same with his trousers, causing Bruce to shudder with the sensation if Tony’s face nestling into his crotch like an inquisitive hand, tickling the itch of arousal; making the other man squirm around his strokes, falling into perfect place. When he came back to Bruce’s eye level his fingers were in his mouth, sucking provocatively. Bruce felt his mouth go dry and his chest heave. Tony Stark was a talented man.

Both stripped to their underwear, and even that was too many layers, they knelt on the floor, nose to nose and exposed to the most detailed inspection. Every muscle tensed, every centimetre of flesh glistened, every breath was: Want me? Have me. Take me. A hot, sexually charged mantra. 

Patience. First: tease.

With spider-fingers, Tony traced the path from groin to collar bone and back again. He liked Bruce this way: open, unlocked, hard as stone. He was like a plaything, but much more efficient, and wouldn’t complain or remain out of action for long if he played to rough. If he could only unleash that inner-monster, that power and use it to another advantage. He relished the golden, selfish thought. The light from the arc reactor illuminated Bruce’s suddenly young and innocent features. But still he wasn’t completely co-operating. 

“Bruce…pretend someone’s like, taken all of your insides out-me- and left you with nothing but nerve endings. All you can do…is feel the electricity.”

Zap. Bruce let out a squeal as teeth chewed at his chest, saliva matting the fine fur. He looked up at the ceiling, almost in prayer. His own startled squawks made him slightly self conscious, but he could be confident, he could be vocal. But not now. Soon. Save. He was already on his knees, naked in nout but thin, stretched underwear, having every inch of his skin nibbled, licked and flipped: would begging be considered a loss of dignity?

“To…” he bleated, hiccupped. He was tingling. 

“Not now,” Tony countered, as though reading his dizzy mind. “Not now.” He traced the curves of Bruce’s ear with his tongue. “Later,” he promised huskily.

Yessir. Bruce imagined the thrash of leather across his skin and the links around his wrist, constricting his movement, preventing his escape. His vocabulary was now very limited. 

They locked eyes, brown on brown, pupils void-like. Forget the caresses, forget the salty, shivering licks; this is what sent the frisson rattling up the spine, capturing the breath in the lungs, slowing down time until it was as though they were underwater, until the universe around them had melted away, until there was nothing more than the sound of panting breath and the ghost of the question: dare we? The carpet was beginning to hurt Bruce’s bare knees and he felt claustrophobic. 

Tony tried once again to force Bruce’s lips apart. And, at last, with great hesitation, Bruce succumbed. In his internal monologue Tony smiled and punched the air in crafty triumph and deepened the kiss, tasting and exploring. Bruce cupped the back of Tony’s head, eager, and snogged back, tongue novice and even perhaps cowardly, like an ill-experienced teenager or a baby lizard. His hands were unsure, static. He wished he could tangle his fingers in Tony’s hair, pull forcefully on his follicles much like Tony did to him. He wanted to pin the man down, trap him like a rat beneath a lion’s paw. But no; he’d only ruin it and turn the heated moment into an embarrassed and cringe worthy one. 

He wanted it slow. He wanted it to ache in the morning: when they woke up in the dappled morning sunlight, stark (excuse the pun) naked on the floor, knees and backside’s raw with friction burns, but a sweet warmth bubbling like nectar in his stomach-liquefied euphoria. When he tried to walk to the bathroom to wash in the ice cold shower spray or when he looked Tony in his bleary eyes, his crumpled from sleep face, he wanted to remember. Bruce’s eyes rolled back into his head as Tony bit his neck and sucked. A sign of success.

Second: lure.

Tony ran his hands up the ridges and contours of Bruce’s back and the hollows of his legs, trying to locate pressure points, soft areas that would make the scientist gasp, moan or writhe. As if on cue, Bruce sighed as Tony applied pressure on his bottom lip, teasing with his teeth, and bucked as one hand graced the material of his underwear, and tugged at it until it came loose, slipped down his legs to the knee: off. Gone. All with the swipe of a single trained hand. The final barrier. Bruce froze for a split second and bathed in the sound of Tony whispering: ‘yes’, before he collapsed against the billionaire’s chest. His back arched. Ready.

“More,” he gasped, demanded. 

“More?”

Third: in for the kill. 

Bruce rocked backwards on his heels, toppling over and pulling Tony down on top of him, trapping him between his knees whilst simultaneously wriggling him out of his boxers, nails raking his back. Bruce bared his throat where a single vein throbbed; prominent, strained. A slightly strangled cry squeezed out of this larynx as Tony slithered down and away from his line of sight and applied the tip of his tongue to the heavy pulse in his abdomen. He gripped the carpet fibre, a white flash –followed by a vacuum of thought- blossomed in his mind as he felt himself be enveloped, consumed. Don’t move. Don’t stop.

There was something animalistic and hungry, no, starving in Bruce’s eyes, Tony noticed: a primal desire that needed to be fulfilled. This wasn’t just sex, or mindless, casual fucking in the half-light of Bruce’s bedroom; it was Feeding Time.

“More,” and this time, the monster growled, licking the creamy residue from the corners of Tony’s mouth.

Tony stirred, purred, and began to move.


End file.
